


There But For The Grace Of You, Go I

by Meysun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Dean Winchester, Multi, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Spoilers for Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, You can read it as Destiel or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 20:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12307320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meysun/pseuds/Meysun
Summary: What happens right after the ending of "All Along the Watchtower"... the way I imagine it.Warning : contains spoilers for the episode.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! As season 13 is on the way, I guess we are all wondering what is going to happen next... It's the first time I write something in that fantastic, clever, rich and unique universe - the writers truly are gifted, and the actors even more.  
> Well, the only thing I'm sure of is... that it probably won't happen the way I wrote it, but hey! I like to try and guess :).  
> For the faithful readers that know me from my Hobbit stories, thanks for joining me there as well and no, I haven't forgotten Thorin and plan to go back to him as soon as possible. Norma, if you read this, be deeply thanked for introducing me to Supernatural through one of your reviews :). 
> 
> The title comes from Simon and Garfunkel's beautiful "Kathy's Song".

It's hard to breathe. It's so freaking hard to breathe.

It hurts his chest and it feel so wrong… It feels wrong because Cas lies there and he doesn't breathe, never really needed to actually, but somehow still did. Which is weird because Cas didn't eat and didn't drink – and all Dean can think of now, as he stares up at the clouded sky, and then back at Cas who's lying there so damn still, is that he forgot to ask why angels still need to breathe, and that now he'll never know.

Something hot runs down his cheek and there's a small choking noise that has to come from his chest. His stupid chest that feels all wrong because Lucifer broke his ribs – Dean wonders briefly if it messed up the Enochian warding Cas carved into them… He kept those chest rays, has them somewhere in the bunker, hidden between stuff. It's something from Cas, after all – something that shows just how much Cas knows, about lore and angels and Heaven and God and _protection_ …

Dean has a weak cough and something salty meets his lips. He wipes them and there's red on his wrist – but Dean cannot bring himself to care, all he can do is stare helplessly at the place the rift used to be. Where Lucifer came out to stab Cas… Where Mom pushed him back in and vanished.

He can still see Crowley, glancing back towards them. _B_ _ye, boys_. And Cas, running toward Lucifer, angel blade in hand. He can still feel Sam's arms around him, pulling him back, and he remembers screaming no, clutching Sam's arm – feeling so helpless and small and broken.

He still does.

Mom is gone. Cas is dead. There's no way to bring them back.

No Darkness. No Reaper. No God.

And it feels like Dean is choking, like everything he _is_ just hurts – because Cas' eyes are closed and they hardly ever are. The guy barely blinks – just gives you his intense angel stare with that funny tilt of the head, the one that makes him what he is, a little bit aloof, that strange, unique mixture of pure warrior and compassionate savior…

And Dean realizes that yes – he never really believed in God. Not even when he met Him. Especially not then – too small, too selfish, too shallow, too helpless… Way too human.

But Dean believed in Cas.

Always did.

All the things written about Jesus and God, about a Savior who willingly died to save every soul… The only one who truly ever did it for Dean was Cas.

_I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition._

In Hell.

_That's why I ran… To keep them away from you._

In Purgatory.

_The things we shared together, they have changed me._

And here on Earth. Countless times.

Dean stares at Cas, at this well-known body that is so much more than a vessel, lying there on the ground, slightly curled up – and that is when he sees them, those dark paintbrushes on Cas' sides, almost looking like leaves, feather-light touches of black… The shadows of Castiel's wings.

And that is when Dean's vision blurs, when his body sags slowly forward, when his hand meets Castiel's shoulder and curls around the still warm skin. That is when Dean chokes for real, when the small, strangled noises he makes die in his chest, when all he can do is weep, quietly, while his shoulders shake and his heart stutters in pain.

“Hey. Dean. Hey...”

The voice is soft. It's Sammy's. Dean would recognize it anywhere. Sam always manages to put so much into the way he says his name. Sometimes it slices Dean open, and it often sounds like an annoyed, half-amused sigh, but this time Sam says it like something very fragile, something that has to be shielded.

Warmth wraps itself around Dean's chest, resting softly on his stomach, pulling him gently from Cas, and Dean thinks _Sam's arm_ _s_ _, don't Sammy, it hurts my ribs hurt I cannot breathe_ , but he still ends up propped against Sam's chest, with Sammy's chin pressed gently against his hair.

“Dean...”

Sammy's crying. Dean knows the noises. And usually he'd say something. Do something. Cause Sam doesn't cry easily – lately even less. They barely ever hug, save when Mom's around – and now Mom's gone too. And that's why Dean just sits there, his body limp in Sam's arms, feeling cold and small and useless.

There's something black on his fingertips – it looks like soot. But it's not, it's spread on the hand that clutched Cas' shoulder, and Dean knows it's whatever is left of Cas' wings, and that thought is so unbearable he has to gag, doubling over Sam's arm, and whatever comes out of his mouth is painful and red, leaving him trembling and weak, staring at the ground where his best friend died.

“It's okay. It's okay, Dean, it's okay...”

Sam's hands are gentle as he turns to face Dean, keeping him up, kneeling in front of him, fingers hooked under his armpits – Sam's eyes are red and shining, and full of fear Dean cannot bring himself to feel.

“Just hold on a little more, man, we're going to fix you.”

Dean coughs, weakly, and his fingers curl around Sam's flannel because it hurts – and because he doesn't know about the _we_ Sam's mentioning. He doesn't feel like he's whole anymore, doesn't feel really there – _I'm tired, Sammy, I'm empty I'm bleeding out I'm so sorry…_

“Jack. Please.”

Who's Jack ? Dean doesn't know Jack. Now that's a pun that would have made him smile, snigger even. Before this. Because it's true.

And what's also true is that Dean doesn't know that shiny, strange creature that hovers over Sam, suddenly, with gleaming eyes that freak him out, causing Dean to wrap his fingers tighter around Sam's shirt, forcing his beat and battered body to move and shield his baby brother, like he's supposed to, like he always has.

“Hey hey hey, take it easy, Dean, it's okay...”

It's not. It's that freaking _Nephilim_ who caused all this, all grown-up and dangerous and sly – and Dean trembles with the effort it takes him to keep upright, frantically searching the earth for a knife, a blade, _anything_ …

“He's so weak.”

The voice is unpleasant. Not loud, but not defined either. There's not an inch of emotion in it, nothing human – the guy is supposed to be half-Archangel after all, and Lucifer's son, so hey…

“He's hurt, Jack. We need your help.”

But Jack just raises his eyebrows and that's when his gleaming, nonhuman eyes find Cas. That's when that thin, almost-human-like body tenses and when something close to anger clouds his face, and Dean can feel the power radiating from his bare feet, right through the earth where Dean's still kneeling, sipping through the fabric of his jeans.

“What happened to him ?”

Sam's hands tighten around Dean's waist. He's right behind Dean, and he's not shielded. He's the one wrapping Dean up in his embrace – because Dean is frail and small and useless now, while Sam found the strength to go into that house and find out the creature's name.

“He died. Lucifer stabbed him.”

And Sam's voice doesn't waver, but his fingers spread across Dean's stomach and somehow Dean knows Sammy's got him – Sammy knows how much these words hurt and is trying to soften the blow, and Dean wonders why this makes it even harder for him to breathe.

There are small black spots crowding his vision, and Dean's fingers are getting icy. That is why what happens next feels unclear – sound has gone for a few seconds, and Dean thinks he blacked out, because there's a white flash causing him to blink, sinking even further into Sam's arms.

“Dean? Hey...”

Sam's hand palms his forehead, wiping away sweat, and Dean thinks that if this is what Archangel's grace feels like, then it sucks because he still feels weak, with a messed-up chest and a weight in his stomach that makes him want to puke.

“Jack!”

Dean does puke. All over himself – and Sam's hand. It's red and smells of blood. It doesn't hurt, not really, it just feels funny, makes Dean feel strangely light, like he's about to fly, swept up by the wind causing the lake to ripple and the leaves to rustle…

“ _Dean_.”

Now that voice cannot be.

That voice was stabbed. That voice is just in Dean's head, like that face is, like that _hand_ is – that hand cradling his face, wiping his lips and chin like he's a small kid… Dean stares at eyes that are as blue and intense as he remembers, and then there are fingers against his forehead, a palm against his chest and a warmth spreading there, _cleansing healing appeasing_ …

And then Dean's eyes roll back, and close, and his body sags against Sam's with a shudder as darkness takes him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dean dreams of Bobby. Of Bobby's old house where they used to stay as kids. He's fixing one of the cars, but there's a tool he needs that isn't there, and he's on the way back to the house to get it when Bobby meets him on the way._

“ _Aren't you missing something?”, Bobby asks, and Dean is about to say yes, could you bring me those small pliers, when he follows Bobby's gaze and realizes he's barefoot._

“ _Kid. You really have to take better care of yourself.”_

Dean wakes to the sound of Bobby chuckling – and he's not at Bobby's, of course not, he's lying on a bed he doesn't know, in a house he doesn't recognize, but before he has time to flinch and get the hell up there's a hand on his forearm and another one carding through his hair.

“Easy. Take it easy.”

 _Sammy_.

Dean's whole body relaxes, and for a few seconds he actually feels good, almost closes his eyes. And then it all comes back to him – Castiel, Mom, _Lucifer_ , the Nephilim – and Dean chokes and darts up, body colliding with Sam's.

“Hey hey hey hey, buddy, don't do that – it's okay Dean, you're safe, you're okay...”

But it's not true.

It will never be. And this time Dean buries his face in his baby brother's chest and cries – because he's alive and probably as safe as it gets, because that damned Nephilim saved him from the Empty, but Mom is trapped in another dimension with Lucifer, and Cas is lying on the ground, motionless and quiet, with wings like burned leaves.

“Okay. Okay. It's okay.”

Sammy's voice is soft. He's not mocking him. He's so strong – has grown into a real leader, a fine man that makes Dean proud, and relieved because he's sure now that Sammy can manage on his own, without him… Sam has always been stronger, less needy. But Sam is a good man, and doesn't mock Dean for being so weak. He just holds him, and allows him to fall apart.

“You really scared me, man. You've been out for hours.”

He's resting his chin on Dean's head and is speaking very quietly.

“We buried Kelly's body. Jack wouldn't let us burn it.”

Dean wants to ask what they did with Cas. There's something that confuses him, something that happened just before he blacked out, but his voice won't come out and he still feels so _tired_ … So he just turns his head a little, leaning against Sam's chest, and closes his eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

Sam's hand is rubbing his shoulder, gently rousing him, and Dean blinks.

“You lost quite a lot of blood, you know… Broken ribs and a ruptured spleen – Cas said it was really close… You scared me, Dean.”

Dean frowns. Backs away from Sam, searches his gaze, heart beating madly in his chest. And because Sam is Sammy, he doesn't need to wait for Dean's words.

“Dean – you do remember that, don't you? Cas said you recognized him, that it was the last thing he felt before you passed out… Jack brought him back, Dean. Jack fixed him… And the first thing Cas did was healing you. He's not dead, Dean. At least we still have Cas.”

Dean's hands are curled around the soft woolen blanket covering the bed. The one Kelly bought for Jack, probably. His thumbs run against the fabric, again and again, and all Dean manages to think is _please don't lie to me, Sam, please don't lie_.

“Dean. Say something, man, you're worrying me...”

Dean just breathes. Very carefully, and his chest feels whole, his ribs are healed indeed but it still hurts, just below his heart, it hurts because he doesn't get it, doesn't believe it… Sam hands him a glass of water and that is when Dean realizes he's thirsty, with an awful taste in his mouth he really needs to wash out.

He drinks, greedily, and then he lowers his gaze towards his chest, because he remembers throwing up blood and soiling both him and Sam – but his dark shirt is clean and the flannel he wears isn't his. It's one of Mary's – one she bought from the men department because she claimed them to be more comfortable.

Dean looks up at Sam, and his brother's gaze is so sad it hurts.

The sound of steps creaking makes Dean turn his head towards the door – towards the shape stopping here quietly, waiting for Dean's eyes to meet his.

It is Cas.

It is Cas in his freaking trench-coat, with his stupid suit and his stupid shirt, and his blue eyes and black hair and that special expression he has, when he's too sorry to really speak but when his eyes seem to see right through Dean, speaking directly to his soul.

“Dean.”

Cas shakes his head, and then he walks towards the bed, slowly, because Dean is trembling slightly, fists curled around the blanket, body rigid and cold, face so pale he looks decades younger.

Castiel knows Dean. He knows that what Dean's fears most is false hopes. He knows that when Dean is afraid, or hurt, or bracing himself, his face is as blank as if he feels nothing, white and hard as marble, the small circle below his right eye showing like a bruise.

He also knows that half of the time Dean yells, or gets angry, it's because he's worried sick – that it's often just the safest way for Dean to show his care. He knows that when Dean chews open-mouthed, and pretends to be dumb, it's his boyish way to ask “will you still love me if I do that?”, because sometimes deep inside, Dean is still four years old, and screaming for his Mom.

(Sam knows this too.)

Castiel knows that Dean thinks he isn't worth much. That everyone leaves him because of things he says, or does, because he isn't good enough. That Dean has heavy trust issues – firmly believes he doesn't love easily, when all it takes to make Dean care is to show him he's needed.

And Castiel knows Dean to be one of the most righteous, truly human men he ever met. Dean yells at archangels. Dean even lectured God Himself – and Castiel must have come a long way in matters of will, rebellion and skepticism, because he thinks his Father truly deserved it.

Dean cares. Dean gives it all. Dean cries. Dean breaks. Dean is so fragile it hurts, and it makes his tremendous strength even more rare and precious.

Dean is – with Sam – the being Castiel loves most.

And Castiel is Dean's angel before everything – because Dean needs him to keep faith, to hope for something more than the Empty.

But right now Dean is scared, and quiet, and Castiel cannot bear to see him like this. So he crosses the room, slowly, and sits himself on the edge of the bed, because Dean doesn't like to be crowded, and doesn't like to be touched when he's hurting.

“I am sorry, Dean. I should have been more careful. I should not have turned my back on Lucifer. There are no words…”

And there are no words from Dean either. He's just sitting here, very quietly, eyes fixed on Castiel's face, and Sam has moved to sit next to him, shoulder almost touching his.

“I cannot promise you we will find her. But I promise you I will try, Dean. No world deserves to be left alone with Lucifer.”

It is silent, in the room. The sun is setting and is throwing red rays on the wall Kelly painted so carefully. They removed the crib and pushed a spare bed in, so that Dean could rest – sleep off some of the pain and shock. Castiel thinks Dean will probably never know how much it helped him to be able to fix something. Heal at least the bones and the body…

Dean's fists uncurl slowly from the blanket. He's still looking frail, and still. Like he's about to cry but tries very hard not to. And Castiel thinks that Jack, who is barely a day old, will probably never ever get close to that childish side Dean still managed to preserve, despite everything.

“Dean. I am sorry.

\- Don't ever do that again.”

The voice is hoarse. Breaking. But it's still Dean's, just like his glare is, and the way he squares his shoulders.

“I mean it, Cas.”

He stares at him, red-rimmed eyes firmly locked with his, and despite everything, Castiel smiles – a warm smile that lightens his tired face, and softens it in a very human way.

“I have no such plans, Dean.

\- Good.”

Dean scrubs at his eyes, once, and then he moves, gingerly, planting his feet on the ground and getting up – and Sam does the same, gently squeezing Dean's shoulder on the way.

“Where's Jack-ass?”, Dean asks, pulling on his socks and tying his boots.

“Dean!”, Sam hisses, but Castiel answers, quietly: “I left him at the grave.”

Dean falls silent again. Though none of them knows what became of Mary, Sam and Dean have already begun to mourn. Which does not mean they will not try to find her.

“I know you mistrust him, Dean. But I promised Kelly I would raise and help him. Jack has unique powers, but he is… lost.

\- Why didn't he save his Mom, then?”, Dean asks, fiercely, green eyes blazing, and Castiel thinks this is so Dean-like his heart clenches.

“This is beyond the power of a Nephilim. A life has to end so that it can be brought to the world. Jack knows that. It doesn't make it easier, though.”

Dean sniffs, and says nothing. He has pulled on his boots, and though he's still pale, Castiel knows he's himself again. Able to move and ready to fight.

“So… what now?”, Sam asks, and Dean raises his eyes towards Cas.

Searching for an answer. Still faithful – even after everything.

“Now… We try our best with Jack.”

Castiel's voice is firm, but it is still a question. It was his promise, not Sam and Dean's – and though Jack is their best way to try and reach their mother, there is nothing that binds them to him. But Sam nods, and walks out of the room quietly – and Dean stands still for a while, gazing at Kelly's painting, at the small room built for a baby that never truly existed, but still brought Cas back to save him.

“Guess you're right.”

Dean's voice is quiet. But it doesn't sound as broken anymore. And as he moves past Cas to follow Sam, he places his hand on his forearm and squeezes, tightly. It feels both like a plea and the deepest promise, and Castiel knows it for what it is.

_You won't leave me again._

Of course the tiny question mark is still there, despite everything, because Dean remains Dean. But Castiel shakes his head, and smiles – and though it's very faint and fleeting, right before he walks down the stairs, Dean smiles back.


End file.
